Twelve Days of (Sherlolly) Christmas
by darnedchild
Summary: Twelve completely (probably) unrelated Sherlolly ficlets in a text script sort of format that are only connected by the Twelve Days of Christmas in some way.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Normally I do not write fic in this format but A) I wanted to try something different, B) I wanted to do something quick, and C) I want chocolate. One of those really has nothing to do with the other, sorry. Anywho, in theory there will be twelve completely (probably) unrelated ficlets in a text script sort of format that are only connected by the Twelve Days of Christmas in some way. Written for the "Twelve Days of Sherlolly" collection on Ao3 and Tumblr. Enjoy.

 _A Partridge in a Pear Tree_

*Sherlock bursts into the morgue, Belstaff swishing against his legs. Greg hot on his heels.*

Sherlock: Have you started yet?

Greg: Hullo, Molly. Thanks for agreeing to stay late.

*Molly spares a brief look for Sherlock and smiles at Greg*

Molly: You're lucky you caught me before a left. Thankfully Philip was very understanding when I told him you and Sherlock were on the way, and we're just going to reschedule dinner for another night.

*Molly heads toward the partially covered body waiting on an exam table, then beckons to Sherlock who has stopped dead in his tracks half way across the room.*

Molly: I found something pretty interesting. I was just about to extract it before you came in.

*Sherlock remains silent and frozen in place. Greg frowns at his friend, starting to worry now. Molly leans over the body and delicately begins to work something out of its mouth.*

Molly: Remind me again, Greg, where did you say you found this guy?

Greg: A jogger found him lodged in a pear tree, of all places.

*Molly pulls out the obstruction with a flourish and a grin. Held between her forceps is the head of a bird.*

Molly: Ta-da! It was wedged in there pretty tight, but I got it.

Greg: Look, Sherlock, you all right? You've gone pasty in the face. You're not even blinking. He's not blinking. That's not normal, even for him, right?

*Suddenly Sherlock draws in a deep breath. He quickly moves to Molly's side, takes one distracted look at the bird and turns to face Molly.*

Sherlock: It's a partridge. Victim is a bird watcher. This is the work of a fellow ornithologist. Probably a rival in the community. Check the local bird watching clubs, find someone with a macabre sense of humour and you'll have your man.

Greg: How-

Sherlock: Partridge. In a pear tree. In December. Philip who?

Greg: Pardon?

Sherlock: Tell me you don't mean Philip Anderson.

*Molly flushes a bit and carefully drops the partridge head into a bowl so her hands are free. Then she strips off her gloves and steps away from the exam table.*

Molly: I do.

Sherlock: Why? What possibly reason could you have for going to dinner with Anderson?

Molly: We've run into each other a few times. Caught up on things at Greg's birthday bash last week, and he asked me out for a meal.

Sherlock: I've asked you to dinner.

*Molly is visibly stunned for a moment. So is Greg for that matter.*

Molly: You haven't.

Sherlock: I did. Right after we left that train enthusiast's flat, I asked if you wanted fish and chips.

Molly: That was years ago!

Sherlock: And you turned me down.

Molly: I was engaged!

*Greg backs away from the other two.*

Greg: I'm just going to go make some phone calls. Got a creepy bird guy to find, apparently.

*Molly and Sherlock ignore him.*

Sherlock: You aren't engaged now!

Molly: You haven't asked me now! Have you? I mean . . . Did you?

*Sherlock blinks several times and then takes a deep breath.*

Sherlock: Yes? He, uh, the manager still gives me extra portions, if you'd like to try the fish after you're done here.

*Molly smiles, looking a tiny bit dazed.*

Molly: Fish and chips sounds perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N** : Quick reminder – these ficlet things are not connected to each other. Part one really has nothing to do with part two, etc. Each chapter is stand alone.

 _Two Turtle Doves_

Sherlock: No.

Mrs Hudson: But, Sherlock-

Sherlock: I said no. Absolutely not. I won't do it.

Mrs Hudson: You won't even notice. It's just for a week.

*Sherlock narrows his eyes at his Not-Your-Housekeeper.*

Sherlock: Why can't you keep them downstairs with you? Or in 221c? Why me?

*Molly snorts in amusement from where she had been, up until now, trying to quietly stay out of the way in the kitchen. Sherlock realizes he may have come off sounding just a bit . . . whingy. Even Mrs Hudson is grinning now.*

Mrs Hudson: You know Amit comes to visit me, I can't have him seeing the birds before his birthday.

*Molly steps into the sitting room and stoops to look at the pair of turtle doves nestled together in a birdcage.*

Molly: Do they make much noise? I suppose I could hold on to them for a week if you'd like.

Sherlock: No!

*Both Molly and Mrs Hudson jump.*

Sherlock: You can keep them up here, if you must. I'll go to one of my bolt holes if they get to be too much . . . bird.

Mrs Hudson: Thank you, dear. Shall I bring up some biscuits for you and Molly?

*Sherlock waves his hand dismissively.*

Sherlock: Don't bother, we'll be leaving shortly.

Molly: We are?

*Sherlock waits until Mrs Hudson is on her way down the stairs to spin on his heel and head toward his bedroom. He continues to talk to Molly as he moves, forcing her to follow if she wants to hear him clearly.*

Sherlock: We are. I can't stand birds, especially the cooing kind. Give me a moment to pack an overnight back and then we can go. Shall we pick up dinner on the way? I know how tetchy you get when you don't eat.

*Molly crosses her arms and leans against the doorframe to his bedroom.*

Molly: Am I about to get kicked out of my own bed, again?

*Sherlock finishes shoving several articles of clothing into a bag, then turns to face her.*

Sherlock: Not necessarily. It's a large bed, we could . . . share.

Molly: Oh we can, can we?

Sherlock: Glad you agree. Chinese or Italian?

Molly: Chinese. And you're paying.

Sherlock: Fair enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I honestly have no idea if zoos in the UK include petting zoos with farm animals, and I'm too lazy to Google it so let's all just pretend they do.

 _Three French Hens_

*Little Rosamund Watson stares down a beady eyed chicken, and the French Hen stares back just as intensely. *

Mary: Do you think she'll be okay?

Molly: Yes. Maybe. Probably.

Sherlock: There's a fence between them, and we're in a bloody petting zoo. The animals are mostly docile, she'll be fine.

*John grimaces and urges his daughter to move past the hens toward the goats.*

John: That's what you said about the alpaca, and it took me five minutes to get all the spit out of my eye.

Sherlock: Everyone else managed to move out of the way, I don't know why you didn't do the same. I would have thought your reflexes were faster than that.

*John glares but is distracted by his daughter, who has just discovered the rabbits. Mary dashes after her family, wanting a picture of Rosie cuddling the fluffy furball.*

Sherlock: Why did I agree to this?

Molly: Because it's Rosie's birthday and she wanted to go to the zoo, and you've never been able to deny her anything since she discovered what a sucker you are for a pair of baby blue eyes.

Sherlock: Brown.

Molly: Pardon?

Sherlock: It's not her eyes, it's the way she calls me 'Uncle Sherlock' and then wibbles her lip in that hopeful smile thing she does.

Molly: That's true, she's suckered me in with the 'Auntie Molly' bit a few times. But what did you mean 'brown', Rosie's clearly got blue eyes, Sherlock.

*Sherlock steps in front of Molly and blocks her path.*

Sherlock: She does. But yours are brown.

Molly: I-I don't, what?

Sherlock: Think about it, Molly. You'll figure it out.

*Sherlock catches up with the Watsons. Molly joins them soon after, and she can't stop smiling.*


	4. Chapter 4

_Four Calling Birds_

Molly: It doesn't fit.

*Sherlock opens his eyes and frowns in the direction of his sofa where Molly is curled up with a book of crossword puzzles and a pencil.*

Sherlock: What's the clue?

Molly: On the fourth day, gift from true love – blank birds, five letters. 'Calling' is seven.

*Sherlock stretches his legs out and wiggled his bare toes in front of the fire.*

Sherlock: Try colly. The song used to have four colly birds rather than calling.

Molly: Really? Huh. Learn something new every day, I guess.

*Molly pencils in the word, then glances toward the windows and the heavy snowfall outside.*

Molly: You're sure Mrs Hudson doesn't mind if I borrow John's old room for the night? I could probably still make it to the tube station if I leave right now. I can't believe we didn't notice how bad it was getting earlier.

*Sherlock lazily waves his hand as if dismissing the idea.*

Sherlock: She's already made up the bed, and I heard her chittering about making a pot of hot cocoa on her way back down.

*They sit in silence for a few more minutes, then Molly looks up to find Sherlock is resting his head on the back of his chair but he's watching her with a strange expression on his face.*

Molly: Oh! I'm sorry. I'm bothering you, you should have said something and I would have-

Sherlock: Stay, Molly. You don't bother me. Not the way you think you do, at any rate.

Molly: Oookay. I'm not really sure how I should take that.

*Sherlock sighs and points his foot at John's chair.*

Sherlock: It's warmer over here.

*Molly hesitates a moment, then takes her crossword puzzles and moves to the chair opposite Sherlock. Silence returns except for the occasional crack of burning logs.*

*Mrs Hudson bustles up the stairs with a tray of cocoa and biscuits.*

Mrs Hudson: Isn't this lovely, dears? With the falling snow, and curling up in front of a warm fire with good company.

Molly: It is nice. Now that I know what it's like, I may not ever want to leave.

*Molly laughs as Mrs Hudson hands her a mug, clearly joking.*

Sherlock: Then don't.

Molly: Pardon?

Sherlock: The room upstairs is empty, Baker Street is closer to Barts, and your landlord routinely lets himself in to your place and helps himself to your crisps. Amongst other things.

*Mrs Hudson and Molly both gasp, for slightly different reasons.*

Molly: That rat bast-

Mrs Hudson: Of course you can stay here, Molly. We'll get the boys to move your things this weekend. I'm sure Sherlock can arrange to have your lease broken, he's good at things like that. Don't you worry, we'll get everything settled in no time.

*With a final pat on the shoulder for Molly, Mrs Hudson heads back down to her flat.*

Molly: Wait a minute . . . You're the one who eats my crisps. And my biscuits. I've caught you red handed at least three times.

Sherlock: Yes, well, it's too late now. She's probably already sending out a mass text to let everyone know you're moving in.

Molly: You're joking. She wouldn't-

*Molly's text alert dings. Seconds later Sherlock's phone does the same.*

Sherlock: Welcome to Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

_5 Golden Rings_

*Molly enters 221b and smiles at the sight of John's coat hanging next to Sherlock's Belstaff.*

Molly: Hello?

Sherlock: In here.

*Sherlock is standing next to the kitchen table, still except for his long fingers drumming against the table top. John is seated, elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hand. Five small boxes are on the table before them.*

Molly: What's all this?

Sherlock: Pick one.

John: Really? After everything we talked about today, and all the advice I gave you, that's what you want to start with?

Molly: What's going on?

Sherlock: Pick one, please.

*John shakes his head but keeps quiet. Molly opens the first box. It contains a small gold ring with a large diamond. The next box has another gold ring, this one with several colored stones. The other three boxes also have gold rings with different settings and gemstones. All five of them are absolutely beautiful.*

Molly: Sherlock?

Sherlock: Which do you prefer?

*Molly's eyes fall to the fourth box as if she can't help it.*

Molly: Where did you get these from?

John: Everywhere. He has dragged me all over London this last week, searching for the perfect ring.

Molly: You bought five rings because you couldn't decide on one of them?

Sherlock: They all remind me of you. And it was only four. The fifth belonged to my grandmother.

*Molly looks at the five rings, once again she's drawn to the fourth box. Sherlock snaps the other boxes closed and pushes them toward John.*

Sherlock: Excellent choice. Mummy will be pleased you've chosen her mother's ring. John, could you return the rest for me?

John: Yeah, sure. I've got nothing better to do than return a bunch of unwanted engagement rings, not as if I've got a wife and daughter waiting for me at home or anything.

Molly: Engagement rings. Aren't you forgetting something?

Sherlock: I doubt it.

Molly: Sherlock, what did I say when you asked me to marry you?

*Sherlock looks at her for a long moment, his face strangely blank as he searches through his mind palace for the answer.*

Sherlock: You said . . . you said . . .

Molly: Nothing, because you haven't asked me.

Sherlock: I haven't? Are you certain?

*Molly shakes her head. John starts laughing.*

Molly: I'm going to go change out of my work clothes. I'm sure you'll work it out by the time I get back.

*Molly disappears into the bedroom. Sherlock hurries into the sitting room and grabs John's coat, shoving it at his friend.*

Sherlock: Thank you for your assistance, I believe I can take it from here.

John: Are you sure about that, mate? You haven't done that great of a job of it so far.

Sherlock: My soon-to-be-fiancé is in our bedroom as we speak. Very shortly, I plan to have her wearing my ring, and only my ring, screaming 'yes' over and over until she's hoarse. Do you really want to hang around?

John: When you put it like that.

Sherlock: Thought so.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N** : Here's a little bit of vaguely 'Sabrina' inspired foolishness. Timelines are a bit wonky (I fudged, I admit it) as far as ages and things, but it's an AU and . . . *shrugs*

 _Six Geese a-Laying_

*Molly is perched on a fallen log next to a pond. The remnants of a small lunch are beside her. She is engrossed in a thick book.*

Sherlock: I didn't expect anyone to be down here. Come to see the geese, have you?

*Molly nearly shrieks. She slaps the book shut and holds it against her chest protectively.*

Molly: Mister Holmes! You startled me.

Sherlock: You're the new chauffer's daughter.

Molly: I wouldn't say new, Mr Holmes. My father has been working for your family for nearly three years now. You just haven't noticed because you rarely visit your parents.

*Molly pales and bites at her lower lip, obviously worried that she's crossed a line. Sherlock stares at her for a long moment.*

Sherlock: What are you reading . . . Molly?

*Molly clutches the book tighter.*

Molly: I have permission. Mr Holmes said I could borrow books from the library.

Sherlock: That sounds like my father.

Molly: Not your father. The other Mr Holmes, your brother.

Sherlock: Mycroft?

*Molly nods. She hesitantly releases her book and offers it to Sherlock.*

Molly: Somehow, he found out that I was planning to go to med school once I finished uni. He suggested I make use of the library over the last few summers.

Sherlock: Why on earth would Mycroft do that? What is he getting out of it?

*She bristles and stands up, her half-eaten lunch tumbles to the ground. Sherlock quickly realizes he's said something a Bit Not Good.*

Molly: How dare you! Mr Holmes has never . . .

Sherlock: That's not what I-

*Sherlocks voice trails off as the sound of angry honking grows.*

Sherlock: We need to leave.

Molly: What? I'm not going anywhere with you.

*Sherlock grabs her hand and begins to back away, Molly in tow.*

Sherlock: The geese like to make their nests out here, and I think they've finally noticed us.

*Molly looks over her shoulder to see at least half a dozen large, angry birds heading their way.*

Molly: Run?

Sherlock: Run.

*Ten minutes later, Sherlock and Molly are perched high in the branches of a tree. Most of the geese have lost interest and waddled off to steal the remainder of Molly's forgotten lunch. One lone, stubborn goose stands guard at the foot of the tree.*

Sherlock: You want to be a doctor?

Molly: Yes. I've been doing a lot of research and I'm rather intrigued by pathology.

Sherlock: Do you know where you'll be studying?

Molly: I'm hoping for a place at Barts, but I haven't heard back yet.

Sherlock: I know someone there. Perhaps I could put in a good word.

Molly: Why would you do that?

Sherlock: Who wouldn't want a pathologist for a colleague? Imagine all the interesting experiments we could run.

Molly: We?

Sherlock: Assuming we don't kill each other first.

*Molly laughs and Sherlock offers a small smile in return.*


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I am blatantly making stuff up now. I know nothing about Swan Upping other than what Wikipedia and the Royal Swan something something website told me.

 _Seven Swans a-Swimming_

Mrs Hudson: It was a sad looking thing. We could barely afford more than some tinsel and a single string of garland; but it was absolutely perfect because it was our first tree together.

*Mrs Hudson passes Molly another ornament from one of the boxes of holiday decorations strewn around the sitting room of 221b.*

Mrs Hudson: By the next Christmas the money was rolling in. We had a giant tree covered in shiny baubles and glitter, but it just wasn't the same. You know?

*Molly nods, although it is clear to Sherlock that she does not, in fact, 'know'.*

Sherlock: I doubt we'll have to worry on that score. Neither Molly nor I have any inclination of ever running a drug cartel.

Molly: Sherlock!

Mrs Hudson: Ignore him, dear. Sherlock knows full well that I never ran a cartel. That was Frank. I only did the typing.

*Molly hangs another ornament on the tree, wide-eyed as if she's not sure if Mrs Hudson and Sherlock are having her on or not.*

*Mrs Hudson hands her one from the small box of decorations that belonged to Sherlock.*

Molly: Oh, this is pretty. Why a swan?

Sherlock: I took a case for the Queen's Swan Marker a few years ago. Seven injured and ill cygnets that had been brought to the swan sanctuary for recovery disappeared in route back to the Thames. They were hijacked, with the intent to sell.

Molly: But you found them?

Sherlock: I found them. And the man who stole them. That ornament showed up the next December.

Mrs Hudson: Because you refused the offer of anything else.

*Sherlock shrugs. Molly looks through the boxes and realizes they've put up all the tree ornaments.*

Molly: Thank you, Mrs Hudson. It was so nice of you to offer to help decorate since _someone_ insisted he had too much to do; even though he's been sitting here the entire time.

Sherlock: I was thinking.

Molly: You were offering opinions on where to put the decorations and making snide comments about holiday sentiment and commercialism.

Sherlock: I was right about the garland though, wasn't I?

*Molly sighs, then nods despite herself. She begins to pack up the boxes and tissue paper that had held the Christmas decorations while they were in storage. Sherlock gets out of his chair and pulls a small box out of the desk.*

Sherlock: You missed one.

*Mrs Hudson bites her bottom lip, hands clasped against her chest. She already knows what is in the box.*

Molly: What is . . . Oh, Sherlock.

*Nestled on top of a bed of satin padding is a sterling silver sleigh ornament that has been carefully engraved.*

Molly: Sherlock and Molly. Our first Christmas. 2016.


	8. Chapter 8

_Eight Maids a-Milking_

Molly: Is this really necessary?

Sherlock: I told you, Mary claims she has an allergy to hay and straw.

Molly: Claims?

Sherlock: I'm eighty percent certain she's lying; but she distracted me with Rosie and I didn't have a chance to bring it up again. Now, five of the employees check out, but I'll need you to tell me everything you observe about the other three.

Molly: I never should have told you my grandparents owned a farm.

Sherlock: I doubt I'll need to infiltrate a dairy that is a possible front for a smuggling ring too often, so you're probably good after this one.

Molly: And why can't you milk the bloody cows?

Sherlock: Milking Maidens only employs women. We both know I'm barely passable in drag, and I doubt I could justify wearing full makeup and padding whilst mucking out a milking stall.

Molly: I hate you.

Sherlock: You love me.

*They both freeze for a long moment.*

Molly: I-I don't . . .

Sherlock: You do.

*Sherlock reaches for her hand.*

Sherlock: And I feel the same. I love you, Molly Hooper.

*Sherlock frowns in concern.*

Sherlock: Breathe, Molly. You're starting to scare me.

Molly: Is this about the cows, because I swear to-

Sherlock: It's not about the cows. I have cared for you for years, but it wasn't until I spent time with John and Mary together that I started to truly understand what it was I was feeling.

Molly: You love me?

Sherlock: I do.

Molly: You love me.

Sherlock: Yep.

Molly: And you're okay with that?

Sherlock: Surprisingly enough, I am. There was a bit of panic when I first figured it out. Mycroft offered to send me on a mission to Gibraltar, but I realized I wouldn't be able to run away from my feelings for you. Frankly, the thought of not seeing you was worse than anything else I could have imagined. So, yes. I love you.

*She smiles. He frowns again.*

Sherlock: This is where you say it back.

Molly: Oh, yeah. Sorry. I love you, Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Chapter 9

_Nine Ladies Dancing_

*Club music is blaring loud enough to make thinking difficult, much to Sherlock's annoyance.*

*Lestrade and Donavon are on the dance floor; Lestrade is surprisingly flexible for a man of his age.*

*John and Mary are nursing drinks (the same ones they've had since they arrived) at a table across the club. Sherlock knows that they're both scanning the crowded dance floor as intently as he is.*

Molly: Want to dance?

*Sherlock's head whips around so fast he nearly hits it against the wall he's leaning on.*

Sherlock: Molly? What the hell are you doing here?

Molly: Mary said the man you're after targets couples.

Sherlock: Which doesn't explain why-

Molly: Mary also said you refused to work with any of the female officers that Lestrade suggested; even though you're standing out like a sore thumb, looming against this wall like 'a creeper'.

Sherlock: When did she tell you all that?

Molly: About an hour ago, when she sent me the text telling me to hurry down here and keep you from scaring off the suspect with your scowling.

*Sherlock shoots Mary an angry look across the club. Mary raises her glass in acknowledgement, not the least bit contrite.*

Molly: I would have been here sooner, but I had to change out of my pyjamas.

*Sherlock's gaze automatically drops to inspect Molly's clothing. Her dress is short and tight, her heels are high, and her hair is loose around her shoulders. He swallows hard.*

Molly: I wasn't sure I'd be able to get a cab with all the holiday parties going on tonight.

Sherlock: You shouldn't be here.

Molly: Would you rather I cut in on Greg, and send Sally over here instead?

Sherlock: Don't make jokes.

Molly: I wasn't.

*Sherlock sighs and turns his attention back to the dance floor and the area around the bar.*

Molly: If you're not going to dance, you should at least put your arms around me.

Sherlock: Why would I do that?

Molly: Because that's the sort of thing couples out on dates do.

*Molly pulls his non-resisting arm around her waist and cuddles up against his side, with one arm around his back. Her free hand comes up to play with the buttons on his slightly-too-tight shirt.*

Molly: You keep watch for your suspect, and I'll act as if I'm deeply in lust and just minutes away from dragging you into the nearest dark corner to shag your brains out.

Sherlock: Are you teasing me?

Molly: Maybe just a little bit.

*Sherlock moves his hand from her waist upward until his fingertips almost, but not quite, touch the side of her breast.*

Sherlock: Careful, Miss Hooper. Another man might think you're flirting with me.

Molly: That other man might be on to something . . . if we weren't in the middle of a stake-out.

Sherlock: We will be discussing this later, Molly.

*Molly shivers at the way his voice drops low and sinfully deep.*

Molly: You have no idea how much I'm looking forward to it. Now, tell me what we're looking for.

Sherlock: So far Lestrade has interviewed nine different couples over the last three weeks. All of them say the man talks to the woman first—usually while they're dancing—and offers to buy the couple drinks. Chats them up. Tries to get them to leave with him.

Molly: If there are eighteen witnesses . . .

Sherlock: Different description each time. Blond, brunette, has a moustache, no facial hair, blue eyes, bright green eyes.

Molly: But you're sure it's the same guy?

Sherlock: Oh yes. And if I'm not mistaken, he's about to make his move on that couple over there.

*Molly strains to see what Sherlock has seen. Suddenly, Sherlock's arm tightens around Molly and pulls her hard against his chest. He leans down and kisses her, open mouthed and hot enough to steal her breath away.*

Sherlock: I'll come by your flat after we're done tonight. Unless you'd rather I didn't? Were you serious just now?

Molly: Very serious.

*Sherlock presses another kiss against her lips—this one much quicker—and then waves his hand to alert the others. Molly watches him wade into the mass of gyrating couples on the dance floor, one hand pressed against her still tingling lips.*


	10. Chapter 10

_Ten Lords a-Leaping_

Sherlock: This is a nightmare.

Molly: Shh. Your parents will hear you.

Sherlock: I'm sure they're already well aware of how much I detest the ballet.

Molly: It's the 'Nutcracker'. Everyone loves the 'Nutcracker'.

Sherlock: Obviously, they do not, as I can personally attest to. What's the point?

Molly: You like dancing.

Sherlock: I enjoy doing it, not watching others leaping and wobbling about in a subpar performance. Look at the lead, she's barely participating.

*The lead ballerina is performing perfectly.*

Molly: Hush. Your Mum and Dad are enjoying themselves. Just . . . deduce something until it's over.

Sherlock: What, exactly, do you think I can deduce from here? I mean, yes, I know the couple in front of us are fighting because she's been having an affair with hisbusiness partner; but I knew that within ten minutes of our being seated.

*The couple in front of them both turn to look at Sherlock and Molly. The woman looks horrified, the man is furious. He soon turns to glare at his wife.*

Molly: Sherlock! The dancers. Deduce the dancers.

Sherlock: So far we've seen ten male dancers, two of them are-

Molly: Silently. Not out loud.

Sherlock: But-

Mummy Holmes: William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you open your mouth again, I will bring your baby book to show to Molly the next time we come to the city.

Sherlock: You wouldn't dare.

Mummy Holmes: And the album with all the photos from your pirate phase.

*Sherlock continues to look mutinous.*

Mummy Holmes: And the summer when you were three, and insisted on running around bare bottomed every time we turned our backs.

*Molly covers her mouth to keep from laughing. Sherlock pales and looks ill.*

*Mummy Holmes waits for a moment to make sure her threat has worked. Then she returns to watching the ballet.*

*Molly reaches out and takes Sherlock's hand.*

*Daddy Holmes winks at her over Mummy's head.* _  
_


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven Pipers Piping

*Molly walks into the Baker Street house and immediately flinches. Someone is quite clearly murdering a cat upstairs.*

Molly: Toby? Sherlock, what is going on?

*Sherlock is standing in the middle of the sitting room, wearing a kilt and nothing else, and clutching a rapidly deflating set of bag pipes. There is a laptop open in front of him, playing a video of eleven pipers marching in unison down a street.*

Molly: Please tell me this is for a case, and not a new hobby you've picked up.

Sherlock: Case, obviously.

*Molly slumps against the door frame in relief.*

Sherlock: I suspect one of those men is an assassin. Murdered a man in front of a crowd of hundreds without anyone seeing, using a dart coated in a slow-acting poison. But I haven't been able to identify which one is the killer.

Molly: Yet.

Sherlock: Yet. I just have to deduce which of them isn't actually playing as they walk past the victim.

Molly: What does Mrs Hudson think of all this.

Sherlock: She went to visit her boyfriend for the afternoon.

*Molly nods, and tries not to ogle Sherlock's bare chest and legs. She fails.*

Molly: Are you keeping the bag pipes when you're done?

Sherlock: I wasn't planning on it. Unless you'd prefer me to?

Molly: No, that's-that's definitely not a thing I would want. No.

*Sherlock nods and sets the pipes down. They give a mournful wheeze as they settle.*

Sherlock: And the kilt?

Molly: You could, uh, keep that. If you want. I mean, I wouldn't object.

*Sherlock grins and steps closer.*

Sherlock: I tried to find one that looks similar to the cover of one of those books you keep in the nightstand.

Molly: You did?

*Sherlock nods. He reaches for Molly and pulls her tight against his chest.*

Sherlock: Consider this an early Christmas gift, Molly.

Molly: Oh. OH.

Sherlock: Would you like to unwrap your present?

*Molly blinks as she processes what he's said.*

Molly: God, yes.


	12. Chapter 12

12 Drummers Drumming

The radio: Come, they told me pa-rum pum pum pum

Sherlock: Enough!

The radio: Our newborn King to see, pa-rum pum pum pum

Sherlock: No more. I can't stand another minute of insipid holiday songs!

Mrs Hudson: But I like this one.

Sherlock: As you indicated the first dozen times we've heard it today. You like 'The Little Drummer Boy', the one about a white Christmas, something about an anatomically impossible reindeer, and that song about the woman who was obsessed to the point where she asked Santa to kidnap her potential lover and deliver him to her door. Obviously if he wanted to be with her, he would have already made arrangements to see her. His reluctance to be anywhere near her and her request for an abduction implies far greater issues with their relationship than a single holiday together could fix.

Molly: That's-that's not what 'All I Want for Christmas' is about.

Sherlock: Are you sure?

*Molly, Mrs Hudson, and Mary all nod.*

The radio: Shall I play for you, pa-rum pump um pum, on my drum?

*Sherlock turns toward the radio with a murderous glint in his eye. John quickly dodges in front of him and shuts it off.*

John: Easy, mate. I've just put Rosie down for her nap. I'll let Mary maim you if you wake her up.

Mary: I wouldn't maim him. But I would insist he be the one to rock her back to sleep while the rest of us opened presents.

Sherlock: I would have offered to do that regardless. You know how I abhor all . . . this.

*Sherlock waves his hand in the general direction of the tree and several strings of fairy lights.*

*Mary smirks.*

Mary: And that's why at least half the presents under that tree are from you, right?

Sherlock: I had nothing to do with them. Mrs Hudson must have put them there.

Mary: Fibbing.

Mrs Hudson: I did not.

*Molly and John grin as the other three good naturedly bicker about who did what. Eventually the 'argument' ends with Mary on her knees under the tree, passing gifts to Mrs Hudson who reads off the recipient and gift giver's name.*

*Molly sneaks into the kitchen to get a Christmas biscuit (or three) and another glass of mulled cider. She squeaks when she turns around to find Sherlock standing directly behind her. He's got a wrapped present in his hands. Molly recognizes it as the one she gave him all those years ago at 'the Christmas party that was never spoken of again'.*

Molly: How do you still have that? Why do you still have that?

Sherlock: I found it after everyone left. It didn't feel right to open it without you, and there never seemed to be an opportunity to bring it up again. Until now.

Molly: You held on to it for years, just so you could open it in front of me?

Sherlock: Is that wrong?

Molly: No. Just . . . unexpected.

*Sherlock starts to open the wrapping paper and freezes.*

Sherlock: This wasn't something living, was it?

Molly: Well, not now.

*He blanches for a second, then brightens and looks intrigued. Almost eager.*

Molly: I'm kidding! Sorry if I got your hopes up, but it's definitely not anything that's been decomposing in that box.

Sherlock: There's always next year, I suppose.

Molly: Just open it.

*Sherlock finishes pulling the red paper off the gift. The box inside is quickly opened and he stares down at it for a long moment.*

Molly: I know it's not-It's not that good. And it's probably overly sentimental, and I know how you hate that, but I thought . . .

Sherlock: It's good. It's very good.

*inside the box is a small photo frame with a picture of Sherlock and John in the lab at Barts. They are laughing over something on the table between them. The photo had been taken only a few months after they'd become flatmates. In the background, just off to the side and barely visible, stands Molly in her lab coat. She is also laughing at the antics of the two men.*

Molly: Greg took it with his phone. He said it was so rare to see you giggling—his word, not mine—that he needed proof to show the guys at the station. I got him to email it to me and . . . there you go.

*Sherlock blinks and looks up at her, his expression soft.*

Sherlock: Thank you, Molly.

Molly: You're welcome, Sherlock.

*He sets the gift box on the kitchen table and quietly slips through the door to his bedroom where Rosie's cot had been set up, returning with a box of his own.*

Sherlock: I won't insult you by pretending I had a gift for you that night. But I did get you something this Christmas. I didn't want to leave it under the tree in case things didn't work out.

Molly: What do you mean?

Sherlock: Just open it. Please.

*Molly opens the present, wrapped in a pretty blue paper that reminds her of his eyes. She briefly wonders if the colour choice was deliberate—the memory of his deduction about the red wrapping of her gift to him and the colour of her lipstick rang through her mind—then she quickly dismisses the idea.*

Molly: Oh. It's pretty.

Sherlock: It was the brightest colour they had, and you like yellow.

*Sherlock winces as if he'd said something unforgivably inane.*

*Molly holds a buttery yellow scarf up to her cheek.*

Molly: It's soft.

Sherlock: It's cashmere, just like mine.

Molly: Now we almost match.

*Now it's Molly's turn to wince.*

Sherlock: That, erm, that was the intent.

Molly: Sherlock?

*Sherlock stands there for a long moment, looking lost as he tries to remember the words he'd rehearsed several times just that morning.*

Mary: I think what he's trying to say, Molly, is that he'd like to know if you've already got plans on New Year's Eve or if you'd like to come ring in the new year at Baker Street?

Sherlock: Why are you in here? Don't you have crackers to pull or embarrassing photos of John in that hideous sweater to post on-line?

Mary: Nope.

John: No, and don't give them any ideas.

Mrs Hudson: We can do all that later, dear. Now put the poor man out of his misery, Molly, and say you'll come over New Year's Eve. Then pretend there's some of the mistletoe Sherlock refused to let me hang over the table.

*Molly did just that.*

*John took a picture with his phone.*

*The next Christmas there were two picture frames sitting on the mantel. One of Sherlock and John laughing in the lab at Barts. One of Molly and Sherlock kissing in the kitchen of 221b Baker Street.*


End file.
